


walkover

by Poose



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Awkward Use of First Names, Bars and Pubs, Class Differences, First Time, Implied Facials, M/M, Pre-Canon, Shame Edward Little Power Hour, Shooting Fish in Barrel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:35:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24222181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poose/pseuds/Poose
Summary: Solomon and Edward meet in a certain kind of pub some years prior to the Franklin Expedition. I can't be more obvious than this.
Relationships: Lt Edward Little/Sgt Solomon Tozer
Comments: 19
Kudos: 41





	walkover

**Author's Note:**

> Set sometime during Greek War of Independence. Solomon is probably 21 and newly-minted 3rd Lieutenant Edward about 24, if you need those details for, shall we say, _reasons._

Sol begs off for the night. Four rounds has him done for. His mates jeer him out the door - they reckon he’s got a girl he's stringing along. He keeps mum on the subject, laughs along with them to show he can take the ribbing. 

Once outside the din recedes. He shoves his hands deep into his pockets, fingers the coins there. A thrupenny bit is like to have him knee-deep in cunt should he wish to spend it. Better to keep it to hand and take his chances down the way. The hour is early and the tavern’s noise audible from the pavement. When he ducks through the door he finds the place packed to the gills. He elbows himself an opening, leans against the bar and flips down a bit for small beer. 

Lamplight casts a yellow glow over white ties and shirts. Plain clothes in this place. Whole list as long as your arm about violations _while in uniform_. But in a black coat, a dove-grey one. A man could like to be invisible. 

Jostlings come but Sol stands fast. Passes pints back to the strangers stood behind him. Gets for his trouble, in turn - a kick to the calf - a fat-rolled cigarette - a man clearing his throat, incessantly, next to his better ear. Touches the coin safe in his pocket, wonders if he’ll have to spend it after all. Nice to go without whores for a change. Like ship’s cats, them. Did that make men the rats? 

Doesn’t matter. Pickings are rubbish. His prick spots no one of more than glancing interest, and he’s tipping back the last of his final half when another body moves into the place formerly occupied by his forearm. 

_Watch out_ he says. Black coat, white tie. A gentleman, like to be, for he loudly delivers an apology. 

He's turning to leave, using the nearest shoulder as ballast. Better to have a wank and a solid sleep than try his hand with these pale fish. 

Dark hair combed neatly forward; old enough to grow a beard but vain enough, Solomon thinks, not to wear one. Neat, by all appearances. Tidy. 

Sol watches him order gin and bitter, drink it down with a rosy wince. Old enough to know better, indeed. 

His own glass has been cleared away when he turns back for it. He whistles through his teeth, piercing shrill, until the barman glares in his direction. Sol grins at him for his trouble. 

_Same again?_ Sol asks the man beside his elbow when he finally gets round to their corner. 

_Yes_ the man says after a hesitation long enough for the barman to roll his eyes. He leans forward and clasps his hands together around his drink, glances up at Sol, who's taller now he’s in that position. A pretty thing. Mouth like a girl's. Sol sizes him up over the rim of his own glass. Liable to startle, he decides. But then he’s here, same as Sol. 

_Have you your orders?_ he asks, in a low voice. Christ. As if His Majesty’s stamp was not pressed firm into his flesh, a real turned to sterling by virtue of its imprint. No tailor’s son, no small landholder, he. 

The headshake is minute enough that not a hair answers in movement. 

Sol gives it a moment. He turns away from the bar, leans his back against it, arms crossed, palms shoved into his armpits. The place is jammed full with men but the exit's a straight shot ahead. _Have you a room?_

The affirmative delivers an even smaller movement. 

_All right then?_ Sol gives the door a hard look. 

He shields his mouth with his glass and hand to answer. _I will leave first_ he says in a pompous tone. Sol spits out a laugh. 

_Doesn’t matter_ he tells that clean-shaven face dismayed. _We know what we're about. But go on._ He waves two fingers at him. _I’ll catch you up._

One left turning, two rights, down a lane. Up a staircase round the back. The door swings in before he’s stepped up to knock and Sol shoves his way through. 

_Greedy little lass aren’t you?_ He gets a hand in, gives him a proper feel. The other man startles as if he’s about to spend straight away. A promising sign. 

A deep, shaking voice replies _If you like._

_Thought as much._ Sol steps in close. He’d like to fuck this one dumb. Won't take much from the look of it. 

_Go on then_ he tells him. Steps back to make some room. _Give us a kiss._

His mouth. Christ. Like fucking holystones. Sandpaper. Gritty, horrible stuff. _Leave it_ Sol says, when it's nowt but unbearable and yanks him off by the hair. He gasps. Sol yanks a little harder. 

Here he says, and crouches down to a hover few inches above him. His own thighs shake as he kisses him until he’s clutching at Sol’s upper arm, shaking now himself when Sol pulls back and spits in his mouth. Should fix the problem. 

He stands back up. _Try again. Don't make me tell you twice._

Much better this go-round. Worth saving his pennies for. He gets a hand in that thick hair and pushes down. 

_And what does your mother call you?_ Idle curiosity makes him ask the question. He hasn't, won't, offer up his own. 

He wipes the back of one hand across his mouth. Looks up from the floor. _Edward_ he says, well-shamed and stained pink. _She calls me Edward._

 _Well then, Edward._ Sol leans down but without a kiss to be had. Spits a couple times more on himself. _Knuckle down._

They move in fits and starts to the bed where Sol can sit, trousers open, drawers shoved down, and get a wet finger - plenty wet by now, a quick study, this _Edward_ \- in at the same time. 

He is in a state of undress but not naked. Neither is Sol but that takes but a flash to rectify. Sol strips him bare, hoists him up lengthwise onto the bed. Slaps his backside a few times for - hell, for the wobble of it - and pulls him up close. 

With his thumb and two fingers pressed into the breach he asks _And what did your nurse call you?_

 _Ned_ says the deep, small voice, and Sol grins against his freckled shoulder. Ned groans as he moves into him. Lovely stuff. Lovely cunt. 

He tells Ned to tug his own self off so's to yank his body flush alongside, pulled in tight with one forearm wrapped round his chest. He cries like a stuck pig, squirms like one too. A sure thing. Enough to change his mind about spending inside. Enough to go up onto his knees and meet his own end against him, the bedframe, the wall, the mirror, _him_. 

He reaches up for Sol’s bare hips with a look of wonder. Grabs them and rubs his thumbs along the bones. Sol shivers. His nails tickle as he does it again, scratches down through sweat and hair. _Is it always like that?_ he asks. 

Sol couldn’t tell you either way. It's been an age since he was this fucked-out last. 

_Shove over_ he mumbles, collapsing down behind him. The frame rattles from where they've shook its screws loose. _And put out that lamp._

**Author's Note:**

> Back on my bullshit, apparently. Intermittently on Tumblr [@pitcherplant](https://pitcherplant.tumblr.com/)


End file.
